


Sink or Swim

by EmmaFoxglove



Series: Mornings At Delaford [3]
Category: Sense and Sensibility (1995), Sense and Sensibility - All Media Types, Sense and Sensibility - Jane Austen
Genre: Arguing, F/M, Fluff, Love, Makeup Sex, Marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-13
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:08:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23129812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmmaFoxglove/pseuds/EmmaFoxglove
Summary: Every marriage has its rough days.
Relationships: Colonel Brandon/Marianne Dashwood
Series: Mornings At Delaford [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1661869
Comments: 7
Kudos: 93





	Sink or Swim

His horse was saddled and ready before daybreak, and right as the sky was turning gray with pre-morning light, Colonel Brandon was riding away from Delaford. 

Cold, white mist swirled in the valleys, and birds were clamoring in the treetops, greeting the day that had not even begun. He listened to them and the pounding of hooves on gravel and did his best not to dwell on the past. 

A mile from Delaford, the road led up into the steep hills. As he crested one, red sunlight slipped over him, catching the world on fire. Brandon slowed his mount to a walk and gazed over Dorsetshire. He’d been looking at these same downs since he was a boy, and yet his appreciation for them had only increased. He’d been abroad, but the more he saw of the world, the more he loved the brisk breezes that blew through these hills and the little country villages that crowned them. 

This morning, however, he saw little to admire. His eyes were restless and his hands clenched the reigns. Though his body was out on the downs, his thoughts were back in the drawing room at Delaford, mulling over the bitterness of his wife’s address and the coldness of his own in response. 

Colonel Brandon’s mouth twisted into a hard line and he spurred his horse onward. 

The Colonel’s side of the bed had not been slept in. Marianne looked at the smooth, cold coverlet with a heavy heart. In the years they’d been married, he’d never willingly spent the night away from her. She recalled their argument the night before and her heart clenched in a mix of anger and sorrow. She’d watched as he’d closed himself off from her, a cold severity replacing his usual warmth. But she still clung to her own views on the matter. Squaring her shoulders, Marianne climbed out of bed, quelling her misgivings at her husband’s absence. 

Mrs Brandon tried to go about her day as usual, though her former tendency to throw herself headlong into her moods could not be so easily shaken. Though her hands remained occupied with various pursuits, her thoughts could not be so easily guided. They were fixed on him so completely, that she could not attend to any conversation or fix her eyes on a passage in her book with any success at comprehension. 

At last she gave up on indoor distractions. She sent for a picnic lunch to be packed, and, taking her young son in hand and her infant daughter in the crook of her arm, Marianne set off for a secluded part of the lawn beneath a large tree overlooking the road. There they had a merry time, with the little boy chasing insects across the lawn and bringing his mother fistfulls of wild flowers to smell. Marianne’s eyes were often drawn to the road, waiting for the Colonel to come riding around the bend. She was anxious to see him, though she hardly knew what to say to him. Her indignation was still simmering, but with each passing hour it was replaced by concern and discomfort. She was not used to arguing with the Colonel. Usually they got along so well and even little differences of mind were gotten over so easily that they were barely ripples in their tranquil life. But the only dangers of having a peaceful marriage is that when the storms did come, the couple were not experienced enough to understand how to navigate them. They floundered, stunned and confused, barely knowing which way was up. Marianne was at a loss how to approach her husband when he was angry. Her own anger was spent in a blazing storm, with heated words thrown like daggers across the room. But the Colonel was different. His anger was cold silence and usually ended up with long stretches of him distancing himself from her. But he didn’t usually stay away this long, and he never avoided her bed. 

Her little girl began to fuss in her arms, and Marianne had to turn away from the road to try and soothe her. 

He’d been gone too long. He knew that, and felt all the shame of his cowardice. But even then it had been difficult to turn his horse around, and more so to walk up the front steps and into his house. It was late, and most of the windows were dark, including his own. A part of him hoped that his wife had already gone to bed and that he could just slip in beside her and not have to talk til morning. And another part was irked that she could sleep so easily while his own mind was in turmoil. 

A footman met him inside the door and took his hat. Brandon went upstairs to her room. The unfortunate reality of his situation, he thought to himself, is that while he felt assured that Marianne loved him, she could not possibly understand the depth of his regard for her. It was religious, his love. He worshipped the earth her little feet trod upon. And when she turned toward him in rage, and threw accusations at him, idle, spiteful nothings so little warranted, it wounded him almost as severely as bullets. Perhaps more so. He could understand an enemy shooting him, but not so the person he’d spent years of his life in constant devotion. 

Brandon shook his head angrily, but this time the anger was turned inward. He knew better than this. He knew it was wrong to place any mortal on a pedestal the way he did his wife. For all her amiable traits, Marianne Brandon was only flesh and blood. She was imperfect just as much as he was. 

He paused outside the door of their bedroom and smiled grimly. Marianne had long been railed at for her romantic nature, but her husband deserved the same censure. It was long past time for him to give up his foolish idolatry and love Marianne for who she was, no matter how infuriating she could sometimes be. He opened the door and went in. 

The bed was empty, not a single crease in the coverlet. He paused in confusion. Perhaps she was down in the drawing room? But he could not hear the piano. The library? But she always brought the books to bed with her when she read this late. He turned his steps to the nursery. 

There was a light coming from beneath the door and when he rapped his knuckles against it, he could hear voices, followed by a flurry of footsteps. The door slowly opened and he saw his little boy peering up at him, his arm still raised, grasping the door handle above his curly head. 

“Papa!” 

Brandon knelt and took the child in his arms. “What in heaven’s name are you still doing up?” he wondered, carrying him into the room. Marianne sat in a chair in the corner, a children’s book in her hand. 

“You’re home,” she said, smiling a little.

Brandon found it difficult to meet her gaze and turned to look at his son again. 

“Where did you go?” the little boy asked. “Did you bring me a present?” 

His mother scolded him. “You do not need a present every time one of us leaves and comes back.” 

Colonel Brandon only winked at him and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a little tin soldier, brightly painted. “He was standing all alone in the shop window. I thought he could use a friend.” 

His son smiled and grasped the toy. “Can you play battle with me?” 

“Not tonight, it’s long past your bedtime. Come now,” he said when the child began to whine, “None of that, you’ll wake your sister. We can play battle tomorrow.”

And he went and placed him in his bed and kissed him. When he stood again he turned and came face to face with Marianne who’d come up behind him. They looked at each other for a moment before she walked past him to kiss her son goodnight. As she went she touched his hand. Her fingers were cold. 

Brandon left the room, his heart aching. How had two people as close as they were been torn apart so suddenly? He was at a loss at how to bridge the gap that had sprung up between them. 

He went into their bedroom and began changing for bed. He had his back to the door when he heard her come into the room. He listened to her approach, felt her arms curl around his waist and her head lean against the back of his shoulder. He closed his eyes and covered her hands with his own. 

“I’m sorry, Marianne,” he murmured. 

“I’m sorry, too.” 

He could feel her breath warming his shoulder through his shirt as she said the words, and her lips as she kissed him there. Brandon turned in her arms, facing her. He took her face in his hands and pressed his lips against her forehead. 

“I missed you today,” she said. “I didn’t know where you’d gone.” 

“I didn’t know where I was headed or I would have told you.” 

“I cannot stand this!” she exclaimed, her color heightening. “I cannot abide this distance that’s sprung up between us, and over something so small.” 

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I don’t mean to be so distant. Truly, I don’t. It’s just . . .” he sighed. “Oh, Marianne, don’t you realize that you hold me in the palm of your hand? Clench your fist and I am crushed. I don’t mean to be so weak, but I am at a loss as how to stop.” 

“You can stop by not stopping.” Marianne placed her hands atop his as they cradled her face. Twisting her head, she kissed his palm. “Do not stop speaking to me when you are angry. You do it because you don’t want to injure me with harsh words, but darling,” here she raised her hands to touch his face, the tips of her fingers stroking the ends of his hair. There were silver strands streaking his temples and she loved them. “My darling, you injure more with your silence. I want to understand what you are thinking, even if I don’t agree with it. I would much rather be shouted at for ten minutes than spend days wondering if I’ve ruined everything between us.”

Brandon was taken aback. “Ruined? Is that what you think you’ve done?” And it made him laugh, inexplicably. “Oh, my love, you’ve ruined nothing.”

“What else am I to think, when you avoid me like you did? When you treat me as if I am a stranger to you?” She grasped his shirt and tugged him against her, needing the reassurance of his touch. 

“I’m sorry, my darling girl, really I am. It’s just that, sometimes I need time to recollect myself, to lick my wounds, I guess you could say.” 

Marianne gazed at him sorrowfully. “I’m sorry for wounding you. I should not have behaved so.” 

“And I’m sorry for sulking,” he replied, smiling a little at her. 

She smiled back, tentatively. “Am I forgiven then?” 

His smile grew and he kissed her gently. “Only if I am,” he whispered against her lips. 

Marianne’s only response was to melt against him, her lips seeking his out, while she allowed herself to be wrapped securely in his arms, her hands bunching up his shirt. She began to pull him back toward the bed and he willingly followed. Soon they were lying in the bed, their vexations and griefs slowly falling to the wayside as they continued kissing. 

“I missed you today,” she huffed in a moment when her lips were free. 

“And I you. I shouldn’t have stayed away so long.” 

He rolled them until Marianne was beneath him, nestled into the pillows. She wound her arm around his neck, and pressed her other hand into the small of his back, tugging him against her. “Make it up to me, then,” she said, rolling her hips up against him.

He grinned. It was marvelous how easy it was for them to return to normal, once they really tried. He hurried to draw up her nightgown and tugged his own shirt out of the way. They had little patience for anything more. He was inside of her, sighing when he heard her little moan of pleasure. They were still half dressed, still half angry, and both thoroughly aroused. Brandon thrust himself into her, watched her fluttering eyelids and felt her rocking up into his movements. Marianne wrapped her legs and his waist, clutching him against her, her fingernails biting into his back, awakening a new kind of hunger in him. He kissed her, hard, their teeth and tongues struggling and seeking and savoring. He bore her down into the bed, taking his pleasure of her and listening to her little whines as she drew closer and closer to her own peak. 

Marianne cried out as her climax took her, her back arching off the bed, her fingers scrabbling at him as she fought to keep afloat of the sensations raging inside. Through the onslaught she heard him say her name, barely comprehensible through the sound of the blood rushing in her ears. He continued to thrust into her, his movement becoming faster and faster, until finally they lost all sense of rhythm right before he crashed against her with a growl, his cock pulsing inside her as he spilled his seed. He swore a low oath, shuddering before sinking down onto her, breathing heavily. She held him against her, waiting for her own breathing to slow, feeling him soften inside her. She pressed her face into his throat, feeling his pulse pound. She chuckled, nuzzling him. He kissed her hair and slowly rolled off of her, tugging her against him as he went. She curled up against his side, her entire body humming with satisfaction. 

“So,” she murmured after a long moment had passed. “We never did finish our argument.”

He chuckled. “No, I suppose we didn’t.” 

“Do you mind if we wait to do so until tomorrow?” 

“I think that’s a marvelous idea.”

**Author's Note:**

> God gave us tempers so that we could have make-up sex. Thanks to everyone who read these little snippets, they, like most of the things I write, are my reaction to the sexual frustration Jane Austin leaves her fans with at the end of every novel. That being said, it's been a minute since I've read Sense and Sensibility/wrote these, so I apologize if any of this is inaccurate.


End file.
